A thousand words
by Valbonne
Summary: Peter and Gustav live at home on their own most of the day, but their father spends time with them after work. But he becomes more and more occupied with job-related affairs, and he often returns once the boys are already asleep. However, his son Gustav believes there is something he can do to show how much he misses even the smallest time he spends with his father.


He was quiet. He had always been quiet, silently evaluating the world around him. To him, everything was a unique piece of art simply waiting to be discovered. It didn't take anyone to teach him how to appreciate his surroundings - for Gustav, it was instinct.

And so, he liked to carry a small pack of art supplies with him, in case he became inspired (as he so often was). Sometimes, they were hasty gesture drawings. Other times, he filled them in with charcoal and chalk to lend them volume and form. And when he was particularly ambitious, he ventured out with his little watercolour palette and a small piece of canvas.

He'd always been left to his own devices, but he had never known the meaning of loneliness. Rather, he called it 'solitude'. His father slaved away at the government, long days with frustrating meetings and hardly any productivity. He always came home promptly on time during the week, ensuring there was enough time to spend with the children. But it was little Peter who received the attention, and not Gustav. Gustav preferred to act independently, relying on his father only for food and such necessities. Perhaps it was for this reason that he had taught himself to discover the inner beauty of all things, and to try his best to depict them in the light in which he saw them.

In this particular month, his father began to neglect the children more. He tried his best, and spent the majority of his time at home playing games with Peter (as Gustav was not interested) or reading the newspaper. He never talked about his job. Something had surely happened at the workplace, and the harried man didn't come home until late, most evenings. Too late to tuck the boys in bed, to sing softly to them in his rich baritone voice, to read stories in scarcely more than a whisper. He would stay out for long hours, and collapse in an exhausted heap on the sofa when he arrived home without even bothering to remove his eyeglasses.

Nobody was there to tuck him in at night; nobody was there to kiss his forehead and wish him a good rest and sweet dreams. Gustav pondered this as he tucked Peter in, night after night. As his head hit the pillow for another of infinitely many nights, a thought occurred to Gustav, and he resolved to contemplate it more when he awoke.

Over the course of the next few weeks, their father continued to seem busier than usual. Gustav worked, too - but on his secret artwork. Even little Peter was not allowed to peek, and Gustav stowed it away where his brother would be unable to access it.

It was a particularly rainy evening, the last traces of summer long-gone as the autumn leaves shed from the tree branches. Some of the scraggly wood looked naked, Gustav mused, and sketched the skeletal forms in the off-angle light from the streetlamps. He smudged the sensitive black charcoal with his fingers, blending the shading in a texture not unlike the tree bark.

The click of a key and its moan as it turned in the lock announced his father's arrival, and with a dripping umbrella and a soggy briefcase, in came the bedraggled man. He gave a start when he saw his son still awake, toiling away under the dim beam of the kitchen lamp. "Gustav," he lectured tiredly, his voice lacking energy. "Why are you still up? It's past your bedtime. Is Peter already asleep?"

But the boy smiled, a mischievous joy spreading its way across his face. Streaks of paint decorated his skin, and it was clear that he had been hard at work. "Pappa, I have something to show you," he announced in a low voice, and hopped off from the chair to fetch something from his room.

"Can it wait until morning?" came the fatigued reply, but the boy had already scampered off in excitement.

His eyes shone with delight as he returned, and handed a stack of papers to his father. They were bound neatly together by a red silk ribbon, and the tidy handwriting on the cover read: "For Pappa".

As the man's fingers gently pried open the top, Gustav stood patiently, eagerly awaiting his father's reaction at the masterpiece he'd created.

At first, it was an expression of pure confusion and surprise. But as the man flipped delicately through the pages, his face morphed into wonderment. "Gustav..." he breathed in the same low whisper that told bedtime stores. "Gustav, this is beautiful."

For it was nothing short of remarkable, what the boy had done. He had doodled, painted, even cut coloured paper shapes into the likeness of his father Berwald, every day for the past few weeks. A happy father, a tired father. A father spending time with his children. And it made Berwald feel as if his smile couldn't sufficiently express his emotions. "Tusen tack, Gustav," he murmured, setting the book on the table as he drew the boy into a tight hug. "_Tusen tack._"

_

NB: For those who don't speak Swedish, "tusen tack" means "a thousand thanks" (but is used more commonly than its English equivalent). I chose to name Ladonia Gustav for the purpose of this story. It's a Swedish historical name (think Swedish kings), and also quite common. I thought it suited Ladonia somehow.


End file.
